


In a Blaze

by Saxifactumterritum



Series: Moments universe [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Stargate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:44:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: I was gonna write a 'Rodney is Waiting At Home' outtake from the other fic, but then I started to have John reading Rodney's emails, and this happened instead.Someone needs to be rescued, and John's gonna do it. That's his job.





	In a Blaze

**Author's Note:**

> I read like, two things on the internet about callsigns. Apparently pilots get call signs from their buddies. John seems to be 'shep' in a lot of fic, so. And the other one I just gave up trying to be inventive. 
> 
> WARNINGS: war? maybe? there's a fire fight and John flies a helicopter and people die not the main characters; mention of loss of a limb. 
> 
> Usual disclaimer, I don't know much about the USAF and I know nothing about soldiers in general or the army or anything. This isn't gonna be accurate, if that bugs you you're not gonna love this.

John’s sat outside, sun-glasses shielding him, watching the hurry up and wait of the base around him. He’s running an op later but for right now he’s just on stand-by, waiting, like most everyone here today. He’s got his laptop but hasn’t opened it yet this morning, he’s sure there’s going to be something from Rodney and he wants to make himself wait. He’s missing Rodney, which he hates, so he savours the waiting, imagining what Rodney might’ve written about this time.

 

“Thinking of your girl?” Lorne asks, grinning, sprawling beside him and giving him a cup of the shitty coffee.

 

“Huh?” John says.

 

“You have a look about you of a man pining away. Why don’t you ever Skype her? That’d cheer you up for sure,” Lorne says, still grinning, needling John.

 

John just shrugs. He can’t Skype Rodney. He almost laughs thinking about it, Rodney all brash and cutting and, you know, male. He doesn’t laugh, though, because right now he’d love to talk to Rodney. Just a conversation on the phone even. But there’s no privacy and he so does not want to get caught. He isn’t ready to give up flying, not even for Rodney. He’s pretty sure Rodney would murder him in his sleep if he ever gave up flying specificly for Rodney.

 

“At least a phonecall,” Lorne says, earnest all of a sudden. John can answer that one, anyway. Kind of.

 

“I don’t want to worry anyone,” John says. He shrugs again. “You never know when you might be cut off, or when I could contact them again after, I don’t … Lorne?”

 

“Yes sir?”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

Lorne laughs. John pushes to his feet and takes his laptop and his coffee inside. He sits in his quarters to read half of Rodney’s eight emails. Long before their scheduled operation, and before he gets a chance to reply to anything, RCC tap John’s team, though, and suddenly they’re on a timer.

 

* * *

 

“Call sign,” John says, for the fourth time, frustrated he’s not being given the intel he needs in order to put together a plan. Colonel Sumner finally looks up.

 

“It’s R2DT,” Lorne says, quietly, standing near Sumner’s shoulder.

 

 _Apache, AH-64D Longbow,_ John’s mind supplies, blood pounding in his head. Sumner’s  going over the location, time, cause (enemy fire, no shit), no idea who’s alive or dead or any medical information, radio frequencies. Just two on board, just two. John knows all of the authentication information.

 

_So drunk they could barely stand up, staggering back to basic training, John walked into a wall and yelped and knocked- well, it was noisy anyway. They froze, but a sergeant came upon them like doom._

 

_‘We are not the droids you’re looking for’_

 

 _John was just glad it wasn’t_ him _who had said that. He checks that it really wasn’t him, but, no._

 

He feels sick. Sumner expects him to do his job, so he does his job, moving through the steps of the op by rote. JIPB analysis says medium threat. Too much planning, too much time, god he wants to be out there, now. John takes a few deep breaths and slows down. He knows his job, he’s good at this. Evasive techniques, countermeasures, suppression, protection, limit engagement. He listens to the key words and tries to focus.

 

Finally they narrow down R2’s location and John’s allowed to take the Pave Hawk up. Lorne and Teyla are checking their new pararescue jumper, Ronon, John’s co-pilot Ford runs through the checks with John, and then they’re up. Their brief is reconnaissance only, if they locate their target they can attempt authentication. John waits as they run through, go/no go? Go. Go, go, go. And then they get a last ‘go’ and he’s up in the clouds. It takes them an0 hour but they find him, and they get an authentication, they manage to get him on the radio and John laughs as they’re spotted and fired on.

 

*Shep, this is Romeo-2, you crazy bastard, get me out of here. Over.*

 

“Yeah yeah,” John says, grinning. “Romeo-2, this is Shep, roger that. Just… bear with me, seeing if I can’t… ok, I think we can make them think you’re a couple miles away, buy a bit of time. Over.”

 

They get no reply but John’s too busy to worry, they’re too hot to do anything except fly and shoot. They lay down suppressing fire and John calls out targets, radioing back to base for a go on an extraction.

 

*Shep, this is base, that’s a no go. I repeat, a no go on extraction. Out.*

 

John looks at his men. Ford’s barely twenty four, Ronon’s new, Teyla’s got married recently. He returns to base, takes his time shutting down his engines, and then Lorne’s climbing into the co-pilot seat even as the others climb out and head back. John doesn’t have time to argue so he calls for a go on an extraction again and Lorne futzes the radio.

 

“Base, this is Shep, was that a go? Say again, all before 'extraction'. Over” John says.

 

Then he gives up on the weak pretence and takes them up and out before they can be grounded, letting Lorne interfere with the radio. He thinks of the blue of Rodney’s eyes as they soar, the smell of oil and the desert heat and blood… he turns, but Lorne looks fine. It’s his own arm that’s bleeding, he doesn’t remember the cut. They’re hot as soon as they get close and John forgets everything except flying. He loves Rodney, he really, really loves Rodney and his stupid trig problems, the sine and cosines he’s had John calculating, and suddenly it’s not so theoretical and John realises Rodney’s been calculating more than math. John listens to Lorne through the headset, ignoring it when he screams and swears and calls John all the names in the book and then some as they plummet out of the sky. John listens to him when he identifies where enemy fire is coming from, listens to him identifying targets, listens to his navigation info. He pulls them up in a steep bank and Lorne tells John very calmly that he just peed his pants.

 

“You did not,” John drawls, leaning into the controls. “Weather, Lorne, tell me about the wind.”

 

Lorne starts reading off their instruments, reeling off information. John sifts through it for what he needs. It feels like he’s dragging the helicopter through the air, against the laws of physics. He lets it go and they fall like a brick, barely slowing. It’s a bad landing, but they’re close, and a bad landing on purpose is almost a good landing really. John runs, relying on Lorne to provide fire cover. He hits the side of Holland’s Apache and falls into Holland’s lap.

 

“Hey, Threep,” Holland says. He’s white and covered in sweat and blood.

 

“Yeah yeah. Perry?” John asks, looking around for her, for Holland’s copilot.

 

“She’s dead,” Holland says.

 

John takes his word for it. It’s a cliche, but it’s raining bullets, the air stinging, it stinks of fuel and fire and hot metal. And blood, as well, singed skin. John hauls Holland’s arm over his own shoulders and runs, he just sprints, dragging him through the sand, zigzagging as best he can. He throws Holland into the belly of the Pave Hawk and climbs over Lorne, not strapping in or bothering with his headset or anything he just needs to get them up and out. They’re sitting ducks and no matter what they do they’re going to take a hit.

 

Somehow they get up into the sky. Their fuel tank takes a hit but they’re up, and John can work with ‘up’. He rolls them, hears Holland’s scream even over the roar of the engine, the rush of the rotor blades, the crash of the fire-fight. John closes his eyes and prays, and takes them higher, sharply as he can, tries to make their flight pattern as random as he can, calcultes lift and wind-speed and god he loves Rodney McKay. He wants to yell it into the sky, wants everyone to know, hates how much it hurts to have this and say nothing. _Math was never like this_ he wants to say. Rodney fitted it all together for John, flying and numbers and calculating as he goes, the universe disintegrating into numbers. He needs the radio and Lorne is already putting it back online. John ignores the fury pouring out over the radio.

 

“Arclight, this is Shep, radio check. Over,” John drawls.

 

*Shep, this is Arclight, weak readable, go ahead. Over.*

 

John gives their coordinates and passes intel for targets, and before he knows it Arclight’s roaring through and they’re hot, but they’re not _hot_. He takes them home, Arclight curving away.

 

*Shep, this is Base. Radio check. Over.*

 

“Yeah, Base this is Shep. Loud and clear, go ahead. Over,” John says, voice hoarse.

 

There’s a lot that base wants to tell him. John lets it fade to a buzzing in his ears. They’re leaking fuel and it’s at a decided limp that they make it back into friendly air-space and at what Lorne is insisting on calling a crash (again) that they land. It is (still) not a crash. It’s just a lot bumpy. The rest of his squad are running across, ducking under the blades, and pulling Holland out. Lorne meets them and they hurry away. John has work to do, he’s got things to do. He has a routine pararescue drop to complete, that was scheduled. He needs to go face a court martial, too, probably.

 

“You’re bleeding, Shep,” Ronon says, coming to drag John out of the helicopter. John goes, falling, hitting the tarmac hard. “Up. Come on.”

 

John staggers up and walks, five minutes back to base, Sumner’s going to kill him for wrecking the Pave Hawk. Ronon has a hand under his elbow and John’s unaware that they’re in the infirmary until they’re there, Ronon putting John on a gurney and calling across to the base doctors. John has no idea why until Ronon pushes against his side and he whites out for a minute. When he comes back to his senses they’re already pushing drugs and doing all kinds of things to him. John passes out in self defence. He wakes slowly, climbing up through a fog, a long time later.

 

“It’s only been a few hours,” Teyla corrects. “And you are fine. You were lucky, a few stitches, a week off your feet. They’re not even sending you state-side.”

 

“Holland,” John asks, trying to get up. He might be fine, but he’s also drugged and he can tell he’s lost blood. He lies back.

 

“He is alive,” Teyla says. “You won’t be court martialed. They might even give you a medal.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I, on the other hand, am going to do something very, very unpleasant.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Do not pretend to fall asleep, John Sheppard.”

 

John doesn’t pretend, he just lets the drugs pull him under.

  
_'Shep, this is Romeo-2-Delta-2, how come I gotta be stuck with R2D2 and you got_ Shep _? it's not fair, you should have to be C3PO! Over.'_  

 

_'I'm not the one who opened my big mouth and quoted Star Wars are Sargent Xu! Nor am I the one who tried to get out of it by pretending to be a robot. Also, that's too much of a mouthful. Romeo-2. Over'_

 

 _'No, you just threw up with great dignity in a bin. You were no use at all,_ Threepio _. Some droid you are. Over.'_

 

_'Yeah, not happening. I'm Shep. I would've liked to be Zeus. Or Thor, that'd be cool. Shep's pretty boring. Over.'_

 

_'Yeah right, Threep. You're not getting commiseration from me. Over.'_

 

_'Whatever, Romeo. Over.'._

 

' _Romeo TWO, Shep. Romeo two, that's important. Otherwise I could be any other rose. Over.'_

 

_'Romeo-2 ,this is Shep, you are a giant nerd. Over.'_

 

_*Shep, this is base, radio check. Over.*_

 

_'Base, this is Shep. I'm reading you loud and clear. Over.'_

 

_*Would you two dunderheads get off the radio and go back to flying? Out*_

 

_'Look on the bright side, R2. It could've been Dunderhead'._

 

_'There's still time, Threep. There's still time.'_

 

__

 

“What’re you reading?” Ronon asks, sitting beside John in the mess a few days later.

“Just a novel,” John says, laughing at his in-joke. Rodney’s in fine fettle, ripping John a new one for not telling him about the injury until it’s already healed. “Holland got back state-side alright.”

“Yeah?”

“Just heard from- um. He looked up a friend of mine for me,” John mumbles. Holland’s the only one he told about being queer, by accident at a bar during basic. Holland’s had his back for years, he still gets light-headed with relief that Holland is alive. One leg lighter and out of the air force on a medical discharge, but alive.

“A friend? The friend Lorne calls your girl?” Ronon asks.

“Uh, yeah,” John says, clicking out of Rodney’s email and finishing filling in the form recommending Lorne for a promotion instead. He just has to hit send, really. He looks at Ronon, thinks of Teyla and Ford, and decides his team can bear to lose its XO. He hits send.

“I haven’t got many people, back home,” Ronon says. “Must be nice.”

“Yes,” John admits. “It’s new. I… like it. I think.”

Ronon nods, and John opens Rodney’s next email. It’s a photo of a cat, apparently this is their cat and he is called Gwaihir because he is wise, and quite windy; a wind lord. John laughs, not quite believing that Dr Rodney McKay, oh he of the soon-to-be-nobel fame, made a fart joke. Actually named their cat a _fart joke_. There’s also a math problem that John can’t be bothered with right now, and a three paragraph explanation as to why Rodney may have accidentally sort of just a little bit locked Dr Radek Zelenka in a closet. John finds himself laughing again as he clicks through to the next one, but it goes away then. It’s just a short one, just Rodney asking him to look after himself, and it ends with ‘because I think I might love you, you stupid doughhead’.

“He,” John whispers.

“What?” Ronon says.

“John?” Teyla asks. He didn’t notice her sitting down. “You look a little unwell.”

“Rodney,” John whispers, leaning forward, checking around him that no one is listening in. “My ‘girl’ back home.”

Teyla’s eyes widen. Ronon just looks confused, still, so Teyla leans over and whispers to him. Ronon just shrugs and goes back to eating. He reaches over to give John’s arm a squeeze, though. John thinks he might be hyperventilating, so he goes and throws up what feels like everything he’s eaten ever. He does not tell Rodney what he did, he’s sure it will just make Rodney worry. That would be bad. He writes Rodney a little reply, later, when he’s done chucking up and has gone for a run and done a little hand to hand (forgetting for a moment that he hasn’t been cleared for anything like that). Just a short email to tell him about being in the sky and flying with Rodney’s numbers spinning through his head.


End file.
